


Got Your Back(pack)

by rebelwriter6561



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7088332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelwriter6561/pseuds/rebelwriter6561
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Civil War AU where Bucky doesn't get frozen.<br/>Steve and Bucky are having a nice time relaxing away from people when something shows up at their door they weren't expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Your Back(pack)

**Author's Note:**

> Two things I’m in denial about: that Captain America Is A Nazi nonsense, which is the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever seen (and I grew up on a farm), and that first after-credits scene from Civil War. As far as I’m concerned, Steve and Bucky went to live in a cabin in the mountains and are happy together. So I wrote it.
> 
> My friend Kat demanded cuddles and the return of Bucky’s backpack, so here it is.

The sun had just emerged fully over the mountains, burning away the mist that drenched the valley. Steve paused, panting heavily, to admire the view. The last few times he'd been in Europe he hadn't been able to admire the scenery much - too busy dealing with all the fighting and drama.

But now he could take time to enjoy the simple things. Like the way the sun washed everything in a light rosy color, that would tempt him and Bucky out of the house, to enjoy the sweet warm air. How even the stark rock peaks softened and glowed under the light. It would be a beautiful day.

It was too bad Bucky had declined the invitation to work out. He was obviously having a bad morning, rolling away and hiding in the covers when Steve stuck his head in his room to offer an invitation. He had bad days sometimes, usually when they got news from the outside world. T’Challa always had kind words and encouragements in his messages, but Steve knew Bucky was still filled with regret about everything that happened.

There were also those bad days that were just bad days. Bucky would spend all day in bed, or curled up in a chair staring off into space with a frown on his face. Steve understood - he'd had those days too, back before the battle of New York. He always gave Bucky space on those days, but sometimes he caught his friend looking at him out of the corner of his eye, like he wanted to say something but never did.

Steve resumed his run, enjoying the strain and effort it took to literally climb down a mountain. Their cabin waited tucked into a quiet corner of the valley, in a literal field of wildflowers. Steve had sent a picture of Bucky standing bewildered among the flowers to T’Challa, who had never visited the cabin, despite it being gifted to his family long ago.

One of T’Challa’s bodyguards had texted a reply, saying the king was too overcome by laughter to answer himself. The next time they had video chatted, their newest friend proudly showed off the framed print he'd had made of the picture. Sam, who was living in Wakanda after their breakout, joked that they would make it an official part of Wakanda’s treasure, and it would be passed down through the generations.

Bucky tried to seem angry about it, but Steve could tell he was tickled. Between T’Challa and Sam, they had enough friendly ribbing to make up for all the years missed. And it was good, really good, to have friends like theirs, who understood, who were there to help, and who were able to provide scenic safehouses when the whole damn world hated your guts.

Steve entered the house quietly, in case Bucky was still in bed. Instead, he smelled bacon, and heard sizzling coming from the charmingly rustic kitchen. Steve walked in and lit up seeing Bucky standing at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing a remarkably frilly apron.

“Dammit,” Bucky sighed as he poked the eggs. “I wanted to have these done by the time you got back.”

“That's okay, Buck.” Steve came up beside him and examined the offerings. There was a pile of bacon and homemade sausages piled on a plate, and Bucky was coaxing a half-cooked omelette into shape. “This looks amazing. Did you already eat?” 

Bucky nodded. “Don't wanna brag, but I can make a mean omelette.” He was smiling slightly, but Steve was full-on beaming. Bucky loved food, loved eating (and Steve always and deliberately didn't think about _why_ he always ate like his food would vanish if he didn't eat fast enough), and spent hours talking to the locals about their fare. The girl who delivered their milk and cheese every morning was half in love with him, but Steve didn't blame her at all.

Even more than eating, Bucky loved cooking for others. He and Steve tried to split cooking chores, but everything he made was always so much better than Steve's. When they were in Wakanda, Bucky fine tuned his new arm by making cookies, of all things. Sam, his mouth full of crumbs, informed them that he would take the cookies as an apology for “the nonsense we put up with because of you two.” Bucky threw flour in his face and they were good from then on.

Steve took the platter of meat to the rough wood table, savoring a slice of bacon and wondering what to do with their day. Bucky was up and active - he obviously faked his bad days to trick Steve out of the house - and there were no big projects to do in the house or down in the village. Steve and Bucky were always pulled to be handymen for the village's appreciating women. Some pics of the pair working shirtless _may_ have leaked online, but the authorities hadn't shown up yet, and didn't seem likely to.

Steve spent a lot of days sketching. It was like a dream, being in Europe and rather than fighting, he was drawing. He sketched the valley, Bucky, the mountain peaks, Bucky cooking, still lifes, Bucky chopping wood, and portraits of their friends from memory. Everything he could.

His attempt to draw T’Challa had been mysteriously ruined by someone adding cat ears and whiskers in harsh black ink, and it had just as mysteriously disappeared. Steve expected a video call about the incident any day. Mail in their neck of the woods took time, but it got there, eventually.

Bucky, besides cooking, spent a lot of time reading, filling in the blanks of what he missed. Steve noticed he stuck mostly to pop culture and societal changes, rather than war or politics. That was probably for the best. He also devoured sci-fi novels like they were potato chips.

They didn't have cable, and the internet was really only for talking with their friends and Bucky's research. Steve checked the news sites occasionally, just to get a feel of things and make sure the world was still turning. Otherwise, it was like he and Bucky were back in the old days, in a life they only dreamed of, and never imagined the nightmare it would take to get there. 

They went on long walks together, scaling the mountains with the ease of invincibility. They stayed away from the snow packs on the high peaks, and cliffs, for obvious reasons. They talked, sometimes, about their lives before the war. It wasn't like they were avoiding talking about that bleak time in the middle, but it was on Bucky's terms. Steve knew Bucky would talk when he was ready.

“What's with the serious look?” Bucky questioned as he delivered Steve's very large omelette. He helped himself to some sausage while Steve started in on the eggs. 

“I was just thinking about what to do today. It's too nice to stay indoors.” Bucky nodded his agreement, looking at the scenery out the window.

“Yeah, I could use a break. Too much stuff is making my head hurt.” He caught the look of concern Steve gave him and grinned. “I'm not gonna go rogue on you, soldier. I just need some time off.” Bucky sighed. “Trying to sort my brain out is rough.”

Steve, not for the first time, felt terrible. Everything that happened to Bucky was his fault, one way or another. And rather than getting help in the form of a generous rich friend and psychiatrists who could really make a difference, they were in Switzerland looking at the scenery.

But, Bucky had told him time and time again that he loved where they were, and it was enough to be with Steve again. So he pushed down his guilt and the sick pleasure of knowing Bucky wanted him around, and did everything he could to make Bucky happy.

So a long walk in nature seemed to be the best idea for the day. After breakfast, Steve helped Bucky put together a cold lunch, and the set off further down the valley to the pine woods that waited there. Though the area in general was a prime spot for tourists, they never ventured as far as Steve and Bucky could. They appreciated the isolation.

Lunch was eaten beside a brook rushing with ice cold water. Steve wondered, not for the first time, if Bucky remembered the Potomac like he did. He never got an answer for why exactly Bucky rescued him.

“I was thinking,” Bucky said quietly, “we could probably handle a few days in the real world. I need new shoes.” Bucky knocked the toes of his worn out boots together. “And it'd be nice to shop for stuff in person.”

Steve nodded, chewing his sandwich. He loved the idea - he'd prefer to get out more often, but the whole “Internationally Wanted Man” thing was a bit of a downer. “I think it's doable. We can disguise up and make a trip. Be nice to get around.”

Bucky snorted abruptly. “That animal on your face might be a better disguise than anything else.” Steve knocked into his shoulder while his friend laughed. Between Bucky and Sam, Steve had a never-ending stream of teasing about his beard.

“Look, just because yours looks like crap-” He went silent at the same moment Bucky tensed up. They both heard the snapping of twigs in the woods to their left. Bucky's hands flexed next to his boot, where Steve knew a knife waited. He didn't seem to be breathing, focused intently on the forest.

The snapping came again, moving away from them. Steve's eyes caught sight of a reddish brown form bouncing away, and relaxed.

“Just a deer,” he spoke quietly, because Bucky was still tense. Bucky finally nodded and went back to his sandwich, but the moment of levity was gone. When Bucky quietly suggested they go back to the cabin, Steve agreed, and made no comment about the twisting, confusing route Bucky picked to get them home.

There was a package waiting for them at the door. Bucky, still high-strung from their encounter in the woods, immediately crouched at the edge of the woods and scanned the tree line, knife in hand. Steve joined him, pulling out his gun. He could practically feel the energy vibrating off his friend. He wanted to comfort him, and say it was okay, surely it was okay, but that wouldn't help.

With a nod from Steve, they set off in opposite directions, keeping in the trees and moving silently around the house and the meadow. Steve checked every branch and rock, but didn't find any cameras or recording devices, much less agents ready to take them in.

This was probably nothing, just an unscheduled package, but there was no way to be sure unless they took every step to make sure it wasn't.

When he met up with Bucky on the other side, Steve was shocked at his friend's appearance. His face was tight but his eyes were too bright, like he was trying not to panic. Steve reached out slowly to put a hand on his shoulder, and the look Bucky gave him was one of thanks, for being reassuring and _there_.

“I'll move in if you cover me from here.” He spoke into Bucky's ear, a tiny whisper that only they could hear. Bucky nodded, his hair brushing Steve's face. Steve wanted to say, if he was captured, to cut loose and run, but that was pointless. Steve wasn't the only one of the two who got reckless when his friend was threatened.

Steve stepped carefully into the field, feeling very vulnerable without his - Captain America’s - shield. He kept his eyes trained for movement from the house, knowing Bucky had his back. When he was close, but still far enough away, he threw a rock at the package and tensed, ready to bolt or drop if something happened.

Nothing did, so Steve took the last few dangerous steps to the house. He glanced at the label of the box, saw the Wakanda embassy's seal, and waved at the treeline. He saw Bucky break cover in a dark blur, counted to twenty while Bucky reached the back door, and entered at the same time. The sweep of the house took seconds because it was so small and, most importantly, empty.

Bucky breathed deeply as Steve retrieved the package from the door. Not every delivery warranted such a response, but Steve was always happier to be safe than sorry.  
“So what's in the box?” Bucky asked shakily. “T’Challa didn't say he was sending anything. What if…” he trailed off, because his “what if” list was as long as Steve's, and not good to think about.

“Well, I don't think it's that custom shield I asked for.” Steve joked while he crouched to rip the tape off. He should be doing this outside or from a distance in case it was a bomb, but he didn't think it was.

The first thing he saw, lying on top of white tissue paper, was a folded letter, addressed to Bucky. He handed it back to his friend to read while he dug deeper. There were notebooks, rather frayed-looking, and a sturdy canvas backpack. He recognized them as Bucky began to read outloud.

“‘ _Dear Friend, please forgive me for sending this on such short notice, but I have suspicions my electronic correspondences are not as secure as I wish. Your package, however, was handled only by the highest of Wakanda’s security officials, whom I trust with my life. The package, and the effects within, have not been tampered with on my end, and you should find them in optimal condition._

_“‘I hope, as always, that your efforts to reclaim your memories and dignity are met with success. I will be in contact again when security is assured._

_Your Eternal Friend, T’Challa, King of Wakanda.’”_

Steve looked from Bucky to the box at his feet. “How on earth did he get these back?” He wondered, not expecting an answer. One thing he learned, for people with money and power, like T’Challa and Tony, nothing was impossible.

“They're all here,” Bucky said quietly, throat rasping. He sank to his knees next to Steve and the box, touching the pages with his dark metal hand like they would scatter like dust if he touched too roughly. “Everything is here.”

“What are they?” Steve asked, because he couldn't help himself. He thought he knew, had guessed from the glance he had in Hungary, but he wanted to hear his friend say it, so he knew it was true.

“They're my memories.” Bucky pulled out the first journal, holding it carefully. “When I first...ran away, when I was stowed away to Europe, after…” he looked at Steve, and he understood he was thinking about the Potomac too, “...I kept getting memories back, and they were all about you, and me when we were younger. And I was scared, because I knew I shouldn't have them, but I wanted to keep them. So I stole a notebook-” he paused to pull out a standard spiral notebook, green and battered. “And the memories kept coming and I wanted to make sure I didn't forget.” 

Steve looked at the journals, amazed at how many there were. “Is it just memories of when we were young, or…” Steve trailed off when he saw the dark look on Bucky's face. It was sad, and disappointed.

“Bad memories. Those are here too.” Bucky frowned, and abruptly stood, picking up the box. “I gotta...I want to go over these. Myself.”

“Yeah.” Steve agreed as he climbed to his feet. “Take your time, Buck. Let me know if I can- if you need anything.” Bucky nodded, a dejected look on his face, and walked back to his room, letting the door close behind him.

“Damn,” Steve sighed. This had been such a good day, quiet and relaxing, but that was gone. Steve didn't blame Bucky - would never blame Bucky - but he wished every day would be like that. Where Bucky didn't have to be reminded about the bad memories locked in those pages.

Unsure of what to do, Steve paced around the living room. If T’Challa was concerned about security, Steve wasn't about to go online. Leaving, even to go out and cut wood, was out of the question. He found a book about dinosaurs instead, something that Banner insisted he read, and settled into the chair by the windows.

He tried to lose himself in the scientific jargon and the story, which he vaguely recalled from the same-named movie, but he was distracted by thoughts of Bucky. His friend was there, alone with his thoughts, and there was nothing he could do aside from picking him up and carrying him back to Wakanda and demanding the head doctors do something. But Bucky didn't want that; he was the one who insisted on hermit-ing away with Steve, to recover on his own terms.

Steve knew recovery hurt, but he _hated_ it.

The shadows through the windows were growing long, the mountains darkening, when Steve heard Bucky call his name quietly. Steve put down his book and stood slowly, unsure what mood Bucky would be in and why he was calling his name. When he opened the door to Bucky's room, he saw his friend sitting on the bed, surrounded by the journals. His face was tight, but he didn't seem panicked or angry.

“Can you...I just…” Bucky groaned and rubbed his face frustratedly. “Can you just...sit here with me. I don't want to read these by myself anymore.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve answered in a heartbeat. He joined Bucky on the bed when his friend moved the books to give him space. They were close, shoulders bumping, and Steve leaned back against the wall, feeling awkward and unsure, like he was fourteen all over again and realizing he and Bucky were too close.

Bucky, instead of giving him space, followed him back, pressing against his side and resting his head against Steve's shoulder. He turned his head, so his fine hair brushed Steve's face again. “Is this okay?” He asked softly, careful and unsure. 

Steve swallowed hard, overjoyed. “This is okay.” This was just fine, this was more than fine; if Steve had known Bucky wanted him nearby or acting as a pillow Steve would have offered himself up ages ago. He was so happy Bucky was finally letting him in.

He stole Bucky's pillow and pushed it between himself and the wall, relaxing as Bucky began to read again, eyes skimming the page with focused intent. Steve glanced at the page, but saw only messy lines in Russian and French and other languages. Bucky used to have such neat writing.

“I was somewhere in Ukraine when I remembered this.” Bucky pointed at a blurred line. “Us living together, in that shitty apartment, before the war. Now look at us.” Bucky sighed. “I can't tell you how confused I was for a while, because I kept remembering skinny you, and I knew you were the same person, but I couldn't remember how you got bigger. I couldn't wrap my head around it until I went to the museum.” Bucky set his book down, rubbing his eyes. “I can't believe I remember you at all.”

“Well, you and I were always close.” Steve didn't say anything about how thrilled he was to hear Bucky talking like this, because it was so important to get it out. “Lifelong friends and all…”

“That's not what I mean.” Bucky cut him off. “Every time they let me out for missions, they fried my brain. Every time.” Bucky was staring angrily at the wall, and Steve wasn't sure if he should comfort his friend or let him have it out. “And I forgot, _everything_ , except what they drilled into my head.” Bucky deflated abruptly, pushing his face into Steve's shoulder. Hesitantly, Steve brought his arm up to wrap around his friend.

“But the minute you said my name, it was all coming back, and this _feeling_ , that you're important, that I was supposed to be by your side. Everything came back in pieces, but _that_ , that I felt like I knew the whole time, and nothing felt right until I remembered why.” Bucky brought his metal hand up to hold Steve's where it rested on his shoulder. “They took everything from me except how I feel about you. They never got that.”

Steve swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “That's why you wrote it all down.” Bucky nodded.

“In case they got me again. I don't ever want to forget again.”

“You won't.” Steve said firmly. He would kill anyone who tried to take Bucky again.

Bucky laughed harshly. “You can't stop my brain, buddy. I've woken up a few mornings and didn't know where I was, and I panicked because I knew nothing and didn't have a mission. Then I'd hear you snoring, or look at the wall and remember that you're there, and it was safe.” Still holding Steve's hand, Bucky turned in his embrace, so his back was cushioned against Steve's side. His head still rested on Steve's shoulder, and his eyes were closed. “I haven't felt safe until we were here.”

_That's why it's so important that we're here,_ Steve reminded himself. There were no doctors, and they still had their bad days, but Bucky felt safe here, even after the incident that afternoon. It was peaceful, quiet, and Steve was with him. That was enough.

“Then I'll make sure I'm always here, so you always know you're safe.” Steve promised. Bucky nodded his agreement.

“Can you just stay here for a bit, so I keep remembering?” Bucky's voice was quiet, but Steve could hear the hesitation, and kicked himself for it. If he'd known being close to Bucky like this was a benefit for his friend, he'd have done it from the start.

“Absolutely, buddy.” Steve pulled Bucky closer, feeling a little ridiculous being two grown men cuddling on a very small bed. But Bucky was relaxed, smiling, and they were closer than they'd been for a long time. That was all that mattered.


End file.
